Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(61)
Alone in the DCI's office, Barbara fingered through the items from the evidence bag. She thought about what conclusions she could draw from those items when they were presented in conjunction with Emily's determination that a trip wire had been used to murder Haytham Querashi. A key potentially to a safe deposit box, a passage in Arabic, a cheque book with an Asian name inscribed in it, and one very curious jewellery receipt.
That last seemed the best place to start. If there were details to be eliminated in the search for a killer, it was always wise to go with the most accessible of them first. It gave one the decided feeling of success, no matter how irrelevant to the case it was.
Barbara left the fan Rolfing the intemperate air. She descended the stairs and went out to the street, where her Mini was soaking in the day's growing heat like a tin on the top of a barbecue.
The steering wheel was hot to the touch and the worn seats embraced her like the hug of an inebriated uncle. But the engine started with less mechanical coquetry than usual, and she drove down the hill and turned right in the direction of the High Street.
She hadn't far to go. Racon Original and Artistic Jewellery was situated on the corner of the High Street and Saville Lane, and it had the distinction of being one of only three businesses that were apparently still operational in a row of seven.
The shop was not yet open for the day, but Barbara knocked on the door in the hope that someone was in the back room, which she could see through a doorway just beyond the counter. She rattled the handle and knocked a second time, more aggressively. This effected the desired result. A woman with formidably styled hair of an equally formidable shade of red appeared in that doorway and gestured to the CLOSED sign in the front window. “Not quite ready for the day yet,” she called with an air of determined good cheer. And doubtless because she'd come to realise the folly of turning away any potential customer in the current business climate of Balford, she added, “Is it an emergency, love? D'you need a birthday gift or something?” and came forward to open the door anyway.
Barbara displayed her warrant card. The woman's eyes widened. She said, “Scotland Yard?” and turned for some reason to glance at the room from which she'd emerged.
“I'm not after a gift,” Barbara told her. “Just some information, Mrs. …?”
“Winfield,” she said. “Connie Winfield. Connie of Racon.”
It took Barbara a moment to realise that the other woman wasn't identifying her place of genesis a la Catherine of Aragón. She was referring to the name of the shop. “This is your business, then?”
“Quite.” Connie Winfield closed the door behind Barbara and patted it smartly. She returned to the counter and began arranging the display inside. This was covered with a maroon flannel cloth, which she folded back to reveal earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and other baubles. Not the standard stuff of jewellery stores, all were of unique design, leaning heavily towards coins, beads, feathers, polished stones, and leather. Where precious metal was used, it was the traditional gold or silver, but fashioned unusually.
Barbara thought of the ring she'd seen in the leather case in Querashi's room. A traditional design with a single ruby, the ring had definitely not been purchased here.
She fished out the receipt that had been in Querashi's possession. She said, “Mrs. Winfield, this receipt—”
“Connie,” the other woman replied. She'd gone on to a second display case and was uncovering the ornaments within it. “Everyone calls me Connie. Always have done. I've lived here all my life, and I never saw the point of becoming Mrs. Winfield to people who used to see me running down the street in a dirty nappy.”
“Right,” Barbara said. “Connie.”
“Even my artists call me Connie. That's who do my jewels, by the way. Artists from Brighton to Inverness. I sell their pieces on consignment, which is why I've been able to ride out the recession when most of the shops—the luxury shops, that is, not the grocery or the chemist or the necessary shops—have had to close their doors these last five years. I've got a good mind for business, always have done. And when I opened Racon ten years ago, I said, ‘Connie, don't you put all your money into stock, darling girl.’ That's as good as setting sail to Port Failure with all engines blasting, if you know what I mean.”
From beneath the counters she began taking display stands made of polished wood and artfully shaped like trees. These were devoted to earrings, and their beads and coins jangled together as Connie set them on the counter and deftly arranged them to their best advantage. She worked energetically, and Barbara couldn't help wondering if the attention she was giving to the products on sale was typical of a morning's activity or the nervous reaction to a visit from the police.
Barbara laid the receipt next to one of the earring trees. She said, “Mrs.—Connie, this receipt is from your shop, isn't it?”
Connie picked it up. “Says Racon right on the top,” she agreed.
“Can you tell me what purchase went with it? And what does the phrase ‘Life begins now’ refer to?”
“Hang on.” Connie went to a corner of the shop, where an oscillating floor fan stood. She switched this on, and Barbara was relieved to note that unlike the fan in Emily's office, it worked as one might hope an oscillating fan would work. Connie opted for the medium setting.